


envy makes the bones

by kyrilu



Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Jealousy, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24536344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: The one where Guillermo walks in on Nandor and Laszlo.
Relationships: Guillermo de la Cruz/Nandor the Relentless, Laszlo Cravensworth/Nandor the Relentless
Comments: 20
Kudos: 166





	envy makes the bones

**Author's Note:**

> This got absurdly maudlin at the end, but I just wanted to write jealous!Guillermo, gdi.

They look like something right out of a painting. Well, like several real paintings - Guillermo has seen some of Laszlo’s nude portraits stashed in the attic - and _wasn’t_ that cringe-inducing - except now, it’s in front of him, and there’s Nandor, too.

Laszlo’s sitting on a gaudy French regency style divan, and Nandor’s kneeling before him.

“Careful with the fangs, old boy,” Laszlo murmurs.

Nandor says, “Come on - it’s not _that_ bad, you like that thing I do with my tongue,” and he dips his head down, his beard shifting as he makes patterns with his mouth. 

Laszlo shudders, groans, and he twists his hands in Nandor’s long dark hair, the rings on his fingers catching against the strands. 

And _holy shit._

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. Cheeks burning, Guillermo quickly and quietly shuts the partly-open door of the bedroom - they really should have closed that - and retreats out into the hallway.

“You have, uh, censor guys to blur that out, right?” he says to the camera crew. Someone nods an affirmative, and he sighs. “Yeah, sorry you had to see that, too.” 

Guillermo shakes his head and tries to make himself focus on dusting the picture frames in the hallway. Except the portrait he’s dusting is a soft watercolor of Nandor with sunflowers in his hair, posing dramatically over a corpse, and Guillermo isn’t thinking of how his master looks on his knees, his hair falling over his shoulders in tense waves while Laszlo, that annoying asshole, gripped onto him and let him suck him off. 

* * *

“It’s not like this is anything new,” Guillermo says to the camera in the drawing room. “In all the stories and in real life, vampires are hedonistic as a rule. They have immortal lives and bodies, so why waste it? There’s those annual orgies, and Laszlo and Nadja being all couple-y.” 

He shrugs, and continues: “When I’m a vampire, I’m probably going to have a fling or two, too. Not until I’m ready -- or they’re ready, whoever they are -- but I’ve always been curious what it feels like.”

It would be nice, he thinks. A coffin laid out, cushions and flower petals strewn across it. Candlelight flickering. Guillermo would have enhanced vampiric strength and stamina, so even if they were taller than him, even if they were an ancient vampire known for being relentless, he’d be able to kiss him and hold him and hold him _down_.

“Not that I have anyone specific in mind or anything,” Guillermo says. 

* * *

There’s a part of Guillermo that thinks: this is _weird._ Nandor has scars on his body from his years as a warrior before he was turned. In the nighttime, while dressing him, Guillermo catches glimpses of those marks, places where armor wasn’t enough. Faded cuts and jagged slashes, from daggers or swords or arrows or who-the-hell-knows-what-else.

Laszlo must be seeing them, too, every time he and Nandor do… that.

And there’s a part of Guillermo that recoils from the thought. Arrogant Laszlo who still doesn’t get Guilermo’s name right; he gets to be the one who touches those scars with his fumbling ring-clad, black-fingernail-painted hands.

\-- Of course he does. Laszlo’s a vampire who’s known Nandor for centuries. It's an eternity compared to his meager decade. 

Guillermo’s a human. He’s a familiar. He waits like a parishioner during mass, the body and the blood offered before him, yet the line is longer than he thought it would be and he’s still in the middle of bowing.

But he’s Guillermo de la Cruz. He’s anything but weak, because if anything, he has the power to add to the canvas of scars with the twist of a stake or the smear of holy water.

He won’t -- he won't. Not at the moment, anyway, since he knows that his master cares about him -- he almost knows what it’s like to fly -- but it does sting, the stupid wanting jealously of it all. He doesn’t know what it’s like to not _want_ things anymore, and he’d pray for absolution, for freedom, for a miracle, except he’s sunk eleven long years into this and the only miracle he’s hoping for comes from the pinprick of teeth -- the swallow of scarlet -- and Nandor, smiling at him, holding out his hand, and welcoming him into the fold.


End file.
